


wide open sky

by paperpenpal



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: A-Support spoilers, Blue Lions Route, Day 1: Childhood/Future, F/M, Fluff, Idealistic, No Beta, Romance, Sylvgrid Week (Fire Emblem), i will almost certainly continue to stealth edit after posting, like really fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:29:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24495064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/paperpenpal/pseuds/paperpenpal
Summary: One quiet moment after they win the war, Sylvain and Ingrid share a story.
Relationships: Ingrid Brandl Galatea/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 15
Kudos: 51
Collections: Sylvgrid week 2020





	wide open sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nicole_writes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicole_writes/gifts), [sunnilee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunnilee/gifts), [emiwaka29](https://archiveofourown.org/users/emiwaka29/gifts), [Julx3tte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julx3tte/gifts).



> I woke up and was informed that it is Sylgrid week and so I looked up the prompt and tried to churn something out.  
> I can't promise I'll do every prompt but I wanted to do something today.
> 
> I am aware that this is a SUPER HYPER IDEALISTIC ROMANTIC LENS but I figured these two could use a break from all their actual baggage.
> 
> And to all the lovely people filling up the tag, it has been really nice to be along for the ride.

He never thought he would have the time to contemplate the wide open blue sky.

It has never been something he has ever appreciated. Sylvain has always had his two feet straight on the ground and his eyes directly in front of him. In school, he was always gazing upon a girl, back turned away from the way Gautier chains pull at him, in war, it was steady on, one breath at a time, rationing each for fear there would be no more.

But Enbarr has fallen, as has the Emperor. Edelgard is buried deep in an unmarked grave somewhere along the path of a unified country, alongside the blood and bones of all those left behind. It no longer seems to matter what colors they wore, not when the people are now one.

Or at least, that’s what he thinks.

Perhaps, really, at the core of it all, Sylvain is simply just tired - too tired to think any more of enemies. He has had a lifetime worth of enemies.

They have won and at great cost and Sylvain had never once thought to look at the sky and what it means to stare at a horizon.

Along his sightline in the palace courtyard on this clear afternoon post-victory day, a smattering of people do the same.

Sometime soon, they will have to move forward, but for now, he thinks it is okay to stay, to wait a little longer.

Along his sightline, in the palace courtyard on this clear afternoon post-victory day, Ingrid sits, a soft smile on her lips, as she does the same.

The gentleness of her visage catches him so off guard that he has to take a moment before he approaches, has to take a moment to consider whether or not he should shake the way peace sits better on her shoulders.

This lightness with Ingrid is not a new thing. It is, in fact perhaps, some very old thing, painstakingly ignored and hidden for many fears justified over time.

But it was not a slow thing. It did not creep up over him in time. His affection for her and longstanding friendship served as the foundation for the softness directed towards her, true, but this other thing, this thing he is afraid of and refused to name, hit him at breakneck, shocked into him by the way she did not even consider to waver over her words one day.

 _Absolutely, no matter what happens,_ she had said, _we will always be friends Sylvain._

In that moment, that single moment, he had realized that all the things he always yearned for but was afraid to ask for, were already the things Ingrid has given him and given freely.

Acceptance, loyalty, strength, support, affection, grief, love.

Always.

He had fallen in love with her then. He is in love with her now.

She sits on the grass, lets her feet stretch out away from her, lets her hands curl against the wetness of the blades from when it rained earlier this morning. She does not seem to care about the way the grass will stain her dress, does not seem to care about the way her braid has become half undone, stray hair fraying.

“Thinking about something?” he asks when he approaches. “Me, maybe?” he jokes and hopes.

Ingrid smiles, pats the ground next to her, ignoring his quip. “What are you up to?”

“Staring at you,” he says lightly as he joins her.

Ingrid shoves him with a laugh. He almost tips over entirely and has to catch himself before he does.

“What are you thinking about?” he tries again, sitting back upright.

“It’ll sound silly,” she says, picking apart a fistful of grass to lay on her lap.

“Try me.”

“I’m thinking about all the books I used to read as a kid, do you remember them?”

He furrows his brow in confusion. “You mean the ones I never read but that you would summarize for me anyway?”

“Yeah,” she grins, “those.”

He remembers those. He has fond memories of a young Ingrid, dancing around the palace courtyard, this courtyard even, on one of the visits they would make to his Highness, re-enacting grand battles and tales of chivalry.

He used to make fun of her for it, used to tell her it was impossible and watch the way she would pout and say, “Just you wait Sylvain, I’ll show you.”

Long before she grew up, Ingrid would dream and dream earnestly, with every part of her body knowing, but slowly he watched it die quietly, behind the embers of Glenn and Galatea.

But she had been right. She showed him. He never really thought she would but he would never have imagined war, not until it happened. Not until she flew in on a white stallion, hands high with a weapon, armor strapped and protective, the only clear vision painted against a smoke-sky landscape.

“I never thought about what happens after,” Ingrid continues. “They always…just end. If there’s a victory, we might get a ceremony, but they don’t talk about what to do next.”

He considers his response to this. “What do you think happens next?”

“What do you mean?”

“In the books, what do you think happens next?”

“I don’t know,” she admits. “That’s what I keep wondering about. How about you? What do you think happens next?”

“I don’t know which story you’re talking about.”

She pauses for a moment and peels a blade of grass in her hands slowly. “I guess it doesn’t matter,” she says. “You never read any of them anyway.”

“Why don’t you tell me one?” he tries, nudging.

Ingrid laughs again, bemused. “What?”

“I’m serious. Tell me a story, like you used to. Then maybe we can figure out what happens next together.”

“I’m not going to re-enact anything for you Sylvain,” she says, throwing the blades of grass at him.

He does not bring his hands up to his face in time to catch any, instead, they settle on his shoulders, he exaggerates a pout but does not move to shake the pieces off of him.

“That’s a shame,” he says. “It was very cute.”

He watches her flush. “I was eight!” she defends, bringing her hands up to brush the grass off of him.

“And nine,” he says, trying to remember to breathe, “and ten, and eleven and -”

“Okay!” She says, shoving again, laughing again. “Stop, I’ll tell you a story but I’m not getting up.”

He smiles, lets the lightness in his chest linger a little longer, listens to the way Ingrid recalls excitedly about something long forgotten and wonders what happens next underneath that clear blue sky.


End file.
